Tuesday - A date with death, part 1
May. 16th, 2006 02:10 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ninanevermoreToday on my drive into work, The Carney blew me a kiss as I drove past him. The flirtatious gesture bothered me a little more than usual, because I didn't want him to read more into the weekend than he should. You see, after more than a year of interaction, on Saturday I decided to talk to him face to face for the first time ever. We went to a local bar for drinks. I hope he doesn't think that it was a date date, since I'm a married woman, and he is the Angel of Death. But I had some things that I've always wanted to ask him, so I figured that we could discuss these things over a couple of beers.
The logistics of it weren't as complicated as you might think. Since I am the only one who sees him, I only had to approach him in my mind's eye. On Saturday night, after I put my son down to bed around 8 o'clock, I sat on my couch, closed my eyes and I pictured myself in the field where the Ferris Wheel runs. The Carney's back was facing me as I walked toward him, his hand on the lever that operates the ride. He watched the wheel turning in it's gigantic arch. I was surprised at how quiet it was. There was no hum of a generator or creak of the machinery. The Wheel of life and death operates in complete silence.
When I got up to him, he said, "I was expecting you," but he still didn't look at me. I asked him if he wanted to grab a couple of beers, and he agreed. That's when he finally turned to me and smiled. His face is weathered, and he looks like he could be anywhere between the ages of 35 and 55. His eyes are older than that. They are like looking at the sky over the desert at sunset; once you look into them they seem to go on and on and on, drowning out the horizon in hues that defy the palette of words that I have to describe them with.
We went to a honky-tonk that is not too far from The Wheel, just half a mile down the road off of the state highway. The Angel of Death rode shotgun in my Elantra to get there. I asked him to put on his seat belt, and then felt stupid when he laughed softly as he did it.
When we got to the honky-tonk, we went inside and sat at the bar. The Carney, who told me I could call him Jim, ordered a Budweiser. I ordered a Corona Extra with lime. I'm not much of a beer drinker, but I like almost anything that can be drank with lime.
"So," The Carney, or Jim, said, "What's on your mind?"
There I was, faced with Death (though under friendlier circumstances than most people will ever meet with him), and I couldn't think of a thing to ask. When you have a thousand and one questions, it's hard to pick just one.
"I can't tell you when anyone is going to die, or when you're going to die, or anything like that," he said helpfully. "Stick to general questions. You know, philosophical ones. I got insight into that kind of thing. No gory details, though. Even I don't usually know that stuff until just before it happens."
I thought for a moment. "Why 'Jim?'" I asked.
He shrugged. "Someone once told me that I look like a Jim, and it stuck."
"Oh." I felt like a dork. I took a swig of my beer to make myself look too busy to talk. I got to thinking about drinking from longneck bottles of beer, and how back in college I liked to stick my thumb over an open bottle, shake it up a bit, let the foam run down the bottle and lick it off just to watch my cousin's boyfriend forget to breath and look like he was going to faint. Back then, I still looked like a wide-eyed innocent and I could claim a partial ignorance about the effect that this had on the poor guy (I just thought it was funny at the time). At my age now, if I were to do this trick the person watching would expect me to have the life experience to make good on the promise. Because I am a responsible and respectable married woman, I have to drink my beer in a lady-like way. I wouldn't want Death to get the wrong idea about me. In a honky-tonk like this one, it was safer to not let anyone get the wrong idea about me.
Jim started chuckling to himself. I wondered if he could see what I had been thinking about, and I felt myself blush. He finished his beer and said, "Come on, let's dance."
I shook my head. "No can do. I can't dance. I suck at it."
He took my hand and led me to the dance floor. "Not tonight, you don't. Just relax and let me lead. Close your eyes."
So I closed my eyes and let Death put one hand on my waist while he held my hand with his other.
"Close your eyes," he murmured, "Let me lead. You're doing fine."
I tend over think when dancing with a partner, and I always forget to let him lead. I'm no good at letting another person lead me in general and I neglect to make an exception on the dance floor. But Jim has been dancing since the first notes of music were invented, and he has been doing the Texas Two Step since long before Hank Williams had his first hit. He is a skilled partner, and I let him twirl me around the floor to the strains of some country and western song that I didn't recognize. As long as I kept my eyes shut and didn't try to look down at my feet, as long as I let him guide me where to go, then no one could tell that I am probably the second worst dancer to ever walk the earth (my husband is the all time worst, yet another reason we are so compatible). If I have to be on a dance floor, I love it to be with someone like Jim, who is so good that he makes me look good. We danced for two songs before we sat back down. I went to work on the half a beer I had left, and Jim ordered a second one for himself.
Finally, as the alcohol started to relax me and I felt more at ease, we started to talk.
Later, I'll tell you about what we discussed.
* * *
The logistics of it weren't as complicated as you might think. Since I am the only one who sees him, I only had to approach him in my mind's eye. On Saturday night, after I put my son down to bed around 8 o'clock, I sat on my couch, closed my eyes and I pictured myself in the field where the Ferris Wheel runs. The Carney's back was facing me as I walked toward him, his hand on the lever that operates the ride. He watched the wheel turning in it's gigantic arch. I was surprised at how quiet it was. There was no hum of a generator or creak of the machinery. The Wheel of life and death operates in complete silence.
When I got up to him, he said, "I was expecting you," but he still didn't look at me. I asked him if he wanted to grab a couple of beers, and he agreed. That's when he finally turned to me and smiled. His face is weathered, and he looks like he could be anywhere between the ages of 35 and 55. His eyes are older than that. They are like looking at the sky over the desert at sunset; once you look into them they seem to go on and on and on, drowning out the horizon in hues that defy the palette of words that I have to describe them with.
We went to a honky-tonk that is not too far from The Wheel, just half a mile down the road off of the state highway. The Angel of Death rode shotgun in my Elantra to get there. I asked him to put on his seat belt, and then felt stupid when he laughed softly as he did it.
When we got to the honky-tonk, we went inside and sat at the bar. The Carney, who told me I could call him Jim, ordered a Budweiser. I ordered a Corona Extra with lime. I'm not much of a beer drinker, but I like almost anything that can be drank with lime.
"So," The Carney, or Jim, said, "What's on your mind?"
There I was, faced with Death (though under friendlier circumstances than most people will ever meet with him), and I couldn't think of a thing to ask. When you have a thousand and one questions, it's hard to pick just one.
"I can't tell you when anyone is going to die, or when you're going to die, or anything like that," he said helpfully. "Stick to general questions. You know, philosophical ones. I got insight into that kind of thing. No gory details, though. Even I don't usually know that stuff until just before it happens."
I thought for a moment. "Why 'Jim?'" I asked.
He shrugged. "Someone once told me that I look like a Jim, and it stuck."
"Oh." I felt like a dork. I took a swig of my beer to make myself look too busy to talk. I got to thinking about drinking from longneck bottles of beer, and how back in college I liked to stick my thumb over an open bottle, shake it up a bit, let the foam run down the bottle and lick it off just to watch my cousin's boyfriend forget to breath and look like he was going to faint. Back then, I still looked like a wide-eyed innocent and I could claim a partial ignorance about the effect that this had on the poor guy (I just thought it was funny at the time). At my age now, if I were to do this trick the person watching would expect me to have the life experience to make good on the promise. Because I am a responsible and respectable married woman, I have to drink my beer in a lady-like way. I wouldn't want Death to get the wrong idea about me. In a honky-tonk like this one, it was safer to not let anyone get the wrong idea about me.
Jim started chuckling to himself. I wondered if he could see what I had been thinking about, and I felt myself blush. He finished his beer and said, "Come on, let's dance."
I shook my head. "No can do. I can't dance. I suck at it."
He took my hand and led me to the dance floor. "Not tonight, you don't. Just relax and let me lead. Close your eyes."
So I closed my eyes and let Death put one hand on my waist while he held my hand with his other.
"Close your eyes," he murmured, "Let me lead. You're doing fine."
I tend over think when dancing with a partner, and I always forget to let him lead. I'm no good at letting another person lead me in general and I neglect to make an exception on the dance floor. But Jim has been dancing since the first notes of music were invented, and he has been doing the Texas Two Step since long before Hank Williams had his first hit. He is a skilled partner, and I let him twirl me around the floor to the strains of some country and western song that I didn't recognize. As long as I kept my eyes shut and didn't try to look down at my feet, as long as I let him guide me where to go, then no one could tell that I am probably the second worst dancer to ever walk the earth (my husband is the all time worst, yet another reason we are so compatible). If I have to be on a dance floor, I love it to be with someone like Jim, who is so good that he makes me look good. We danced for two songs before we sat back down. I went to work on the half a beer I had left, and Jim ordered a second one for himself.
Finally, as the alcohol started to relax me and I felt more at ease, we started to talk.
Later, I'll tell you about what we discussed.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
when dancing with a partner
Date: 2006-05-16 07:34 pm (UTC)Re: when dancing with a partner
Date: 2006-05-16 07:38 pm (UTC)a little intimidated
Date: 2006-05-16 08:00 pm (UTC)Re: a little intimidated
Date: 2006-05-16 09:35 pm (UTC)Re: when dancing with a partner
Date: 2006-05-16 11:05 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-16 07:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-16 09:36 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-17 02:49 pm (UTC)Actually, I go out on Saturday's with people who aren't incarnations of Death, as well. Jeff and I have a good trust based relationship. He's not a people person and hates crowds, whereas I sometimes crave the white noise of humanity. So long as I come home to him, he has no problem with me going out without him. In fact, he prefers it to being dragged along.
no subject
Date: 2006-05-17 01:12 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-17 02:50 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-17 01:26 am (UTC)Ah... such memories!
no subject
Date: 2006-05-17 03:09 pm (UTC)Do you think it was me pretending to deep throat the beer bottle that made him start following me around like that? I am sorry, I really am. It was all fun and games to me. I only did that sort of thing in your presence, in public, which made it (to my mind) a joke and not a come on (you know me better than that).
I'm like a little kid, even to this day. It never occurs to me that anyone would see me as asexually desirable. I just like to joke and play. In some ways, I think my lack of awareness of any sex appeal that I might have (if I do have any) and my lack of guile about it is a turn on for certain people. But unless they tell me about it, I am completely unaware of it.
When it became obvious (even to oblivious me) that JCS had feelings for me (after you two parted ways, BTW), I broke off all contact with him. I always figured it was just some sort of crush, though, not an all out in love thing. For what it's worth, whenever we were together, it was always on the pretense to talk about you and how he could better understand you (and later, how he could win you back). Since Jeff and I were an item, JCS never once came on to me or made any suggestions that he wanted me in that way.
no subject
Date: 2006-05-18 11:57 am (UTC)For the record, I NEVER blamed you! And I only started resenting it when he began introducing YOU to his friends and leaving me at home (then bragging about his evening to me later -- f*ckwit!). Even Stephen reamed him for that one! Da boy was just a dumbass when it came to women, but he's come a long way since. You'd have to ask his wife, however, if he's actually earned his PhD in Female. :D
no subject
Date: 2006-05-18 02:37 pm (UTC)All I can say is that his wife must be a very patient woman.
no subject
Date: 2006-05-18 11:41 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-19 03:22 pm (UTC)It wasn't much of a trick; it was more of a performance, and not one that took much talent. I licked foam off the side of a beer bottle. That's it. No skill required; just a full bottle of beer, a tongue, and enough of a buzz to have no shame. Looking back, I'm more than a little appalled at myself.
I admit, alcohol brings out my exhibitionist streak. For someone who rarely drinks, I seem to make a big impression in public when I do. (*blushes, swears off booze for good*)